Victory Roll - Chap 3 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 3 of "Victory Roll") May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort.


**Victory Roll – Chapter 3 (M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 3 of "Victory Roll")

May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort.

_Chapter 3:_ Christopher is ferried back to Steep Lane and receives attention.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

For the **T-rated version of this chapter**, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**Victory Roll**".

…

Foyle is often seen wielding a fishing rod. As we also know, he is a man of integrity, and would never exaggerate the size of any catch. If you care to examine Foyle's fishing record, have a look at my other short fic, entitled _'On the Hook'_ – coincidentally, also set in May 1942. Do have a read of it first. It is short. Not, strictly speaking, a prequel to this fic, but there are themes in common. And there's a laugh in it for you, both there… and here. OK. Enough begging.

...

Sulfa powder was a mainstay of field medicine before the advent of antibiotics (which really only came into their own around 1944), and was usually introduced into wounds, after cleaning and debridement, in order to prevent bacterial infection.

...

You will certainly have heard that an English cynic famously described American GIs in Britain as _'overpaid, overdressed, oversexed and over here'_. The Americans amused themselves by countering that the British were_ 'underpaid, underdressed, undersexed and under Eisenhower'. _I can honestly say that, as I start this chapter of '_Victory Roll'_, I have no idea who'll finish up on top—England or America.

...

For the ladies of America!

* * *

**_Previously, in "Victory Roll"_**

_"Samantha?"—this was Jocelyn, speaking gently to Samantha's back—"Hi. My name's Jocelyn. I've already staunched the bleeding. Things are under control here."_

_With a quick glance, Sam took in the sanitary pad arrangement on her boss's leg, and blushed afresh._

_Foyle watched her carefully, and his voice was softer when he spoke this time._

_"Sam. Listen. Other people are sure to need the attention more than I do. No need for hospital—these are only flesh wounds, and Mrs St Just here has training in First Aid. Just, um, load me in the car and drive me home, would you?"_

_"Shouldn't we be asking an expert, Sir?" Sam glanced sideways at Jocelyn under lowered lids. "Just to be on the safe side."_

_"Sam… please do as I ask."_

_Sam huffed. "Well, Sir, if you insist."_

_"I do."_

_Jocelyn chimed in. "Don't fret. I got him, Sam. I've dressed a hundred bullet wounds. He'll be okay with me, on my honour."_

_Sam ignored Jocelyn. "Better get you in the car then, Sir." Sighing pointedly, she rose, strode across the grass to the Wolseley and opened the rear door. _

_As Sam leant inside to clear some papers from the back seat, ready to receive her boss, Jocelyn remarked _sotto voce,_ "Man, your driver's got it bad for you."_

_Foyle looked at her in open puzzlement. "I'm sure you're wrong," he said. _

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Still Sunday, 17th May 1942**

Having parked outside Foyle's house, Sam Stewart now hovered proprietorially at the Wolseley's rear door, on the side where her boss was seated. Bad enough already that it had been necessary for the St Just woman to occupy the rear seat next to her boss for their short journey back to Steep Lane, but—_infernal cheek!_—one of Sam's frequent, worried glances in the rear view mirror had caught the woman's hand resting lightly on Mr Foyle's bare knee! Poor Mr Foyle was leaning back against the leather upholstery with his eyes closed, quite powerless to defend himself. This was ignominy heaped on top of humiliation!

No sooner had Sam brought the Wolseley to a halt, than she had hauled the handbrake up with such a speed and force, it threatened to wreck the ratchet. Without pausing for breath, or to announce their arrival, she had scrambled from the cabin and rushed around to Mr Foyle's side of the car before the other woman had a chance to realise that they had actually reached their destination. Sam had no intention of allowing the interloper further access to her boss. _She_ was going to be the one to help him from his seat.

Foyle shifted himself with some difficulty, leading with his left leg, and Sam moved in smartly, bending with care to slide her right shoulder under his left arm.

"That's it, Sir. Soon have you on your feet."

Standing behind Sam, where she'd patiently taken up a waiting position, Jocelyn watched the younger woman methodically field enough of Christopher's weight to lever him upright. Moving smoothly to Foyle's other side, Jocelyn fed a supportive arm under his right elbow.

"Beautifully done, Sam," she offered, leaning slightly forward to smile round at Samantha.

Sensing the immediate and uncharacteristic _froideur_ exuded by his driver, Foyle offered an awkward, "Thank you, um, both." Though genuinely grateful for the ladies' joint solicitude, he had spent most of the short journey home contemplating Jocelyn's assessment of his driver's feelings toward him and, frankly, was beginning to feel rather like the meat inside a sandwich.

As they progressed slowly towards the steps of 31 Steep Lane, Sam ripped him from his private thoughts by prompting: "Key, Sir?"

"Yes, I'm sure I have it… somewhere," answered Foyle, preoccupied with keeping the weight off his right leg.

"Just tell me which pocket it's in, Sir, and I'll fish it out for you," pressed Sam.

Sam's obliging offer revived Foyle's memory of precisely where he'd put his key. And that memory caused him to blanch. The key lurked dangerously at the bottom of his left trouser-pocket. And Sam was offering to 'fish it out'. _Dear God, she would as well!_ Something had to be done, and quickly.

His head snapped round to capture Jocelyn's eyes, into which he conveyed a look of pure panic. Clenching his teeth in a deliberate rictus that amounted to an open entreaty for help, he drew her gaze with his, diagonally down and to the left towards his trousers, and prayed that she would take the hint.

Jocelyn didn't miss a beat. They had a situation here, and it was up to her to head it off at the pass. "Oooo-kayy! Hold him steady, please, Sam," she chirped brightly.

Before his driver could object, Jocelyn had womanhandled her half of Foyle to lean against the railings over to the right of the front steps. Quickly satisfying herself that he was stable, she darted round behind him.

Jocelyn's lightning manoeuvre blindsided Sam. Too absorbed in her support of Foyle, she couldn't stop her rival's hand from diving past her boss's hip, and down into his trouser pocket. Fearlessly Jocelyn dug for the key, and was already brandishing it confidently before Sam even had the chance to utter her indignant "Oh, I say!" of protest.

"Had to dig, but got a firm hold on the pesky liddle thing!" sang Jocelyn, tripping lightly up the steps to fit the key into the keyhole.

Mortified, Foyle stared rigidly ahead, enveloped in a cold sweat. But he need not have worried; Sam hadn't caught the nuance in Jocelyn's mischievous observation. She was more annoyed at having been pipped at the post over the key.

It took a few more minutes of careful manoeuvring to assist Foyle up the front steps and into the hall of 31 Steep Lane. Grateful to be on home territory at last, and finding himself conveniently next to the coat-cum-umbrella stand, Foyle detached himself from Jocelyn and reached for the sturdy walking stick parked inside it.

The stick had originally belonged to his father, and had stood there for years, unused. Then Andrew had borrowed it back in '40, when he was recuperating from being shot down in the Channel. Now, it seemed, Foyle would be putting it to similar use himself.

"Let me... just... try with this," he grated out. Removing his arm from Sam's shoulders, he attempted a step or two along the hall towards the stairs. The pain was hard, but (he was relieved to note) bearable. Under the watchful eye of his two minders, he made it to the sitting room and managed to lower himself into the most upright chair available—a wing-easy next to the hearth.

Foyle exhaled in relief. He'd made it this far. But his body was telling him he needed to lie down and rest. His mind equally was telling him that there was going to be no chance of peace while the same amount of feminine tension reigned in his sitting room as he'd felt outside his house. He racked his brains. Milner would certainly be at the station, dealing with the aftermath of today's raid...

"Sam, thank you for everything. When you leave, would you please report straight in to Milner, and explain to him what's happened?"

Sam bridled. "Am I leaving then, Sir? I'd much rather stay here and look after you…" She looked pointedly back over her shoulder at the telephone on the hall table. "Couldn't I just telephone him?"

"This is important, Sam. There'll be other people injured, damage to property, criminals profiting from the chaos. You and the car will be of use. Can't have you hanging around here. It's a waste of valuable resource." _Nice one, old chap. _Foyle congratulated himself for the inspired touch. Then, in the next instant, he felt like a thorough bounder. Sam was kind and loyal and bloody useful on the team, and deserved more honest handling than she was getting from him in this moment. But on the other hand, he was in a tight corner, and the sweat was breaking on his brow... _God's sakes! Was a man to have no peace when he was shot to bits?_

Certainly no internal peace, he wasn't. Seeing Sam's crestfallen expression, Foyle's features arranged themselves into a pained grimace, and he made her a consoling offer. "You can come and collect me tomorrow," he told her kindly. "But leave it until lunchtime, hmm? By that time, I'll be surer on my pins."

Sam wasn't going to be put off. "What about a doctor, Sir? Should I call one now?"

Foyle shook his head adamantly. "Nnnot a priority."

As Samantha opened her mouth in preparation to argue, Jocelyn intervened breezily, addressing Foyle. "Soooo! I'll take a proper look at your wounds now, shall I? And re-dress them. First aid supplies, Christopher…?"

Foyle nodded towards the hallway. "Cupboard under the stairs. Gauze, antiseptic, zinc ointment. Some of it might date back to my son's adolescent mishaps, but the stuff is serviceable."

"Okay. Now _if_, after I've looked, I think you need a doctor, then I'll call one." Jocelyn turned kind eyes on the young woman hovering in front of Foyle. "He'll be all right with me. Do you believe me, Sam?"

Sam was blinking in bewilderment. Had this woman just called her boss _Christopher_? Had she missed something? Her mind rewound the afternoon's events: inside the Wolseley, the woman had her hand on Mr Foyle's knee; up on West Hill, Mr Foyle had referred to her as Mrs St Just, but it now appeared obvious that this was some sort of sneaky front to hide their level of acquaintance. When Mr Foyle had spotted this woman on the hill, he had been anxious to get out of the car... _and be with her_. Now that she thought of it, it seemed likely Mr Foyle had asked her to drive home over West Hill on the off-chance that the woman was already there.

And now, here they all were. And to this woman, Mr Foyle was _Christopher_. And she, Samantha Stewart was just his driver.

Suddenly, painfully, it dawned on Sam that _she_ was the extra wheel.

Defeated, Sam closed her eyes and nodded once. "Yes, I suppose, um…" She bit her lip, adjusting to defeat. But even as the last chance faded to save a situation she was powerless to influence, inspiration struck! Sam raised her chin and addressed Jocelyn with faultless courtesy.

"Mrs St Just, as soon as you've attended to Mr Foyle, may I drop you somewhere? If not now, then perhaps in an hour?" She turned to Foyle, trying hard to hide her desperate need for him to grant her this, at least. "I'm sure you'd like Mrs St Just seen safely home, wouldn't you, Sir?"

Hoist with the petard of his own good manners, Foyle could do little else than stretch his eyes and incline his head politely, hoping for Jocelyn to step into the breach.

Which she did, and effortlessly so, in a voice both unruffled by animus, and suffused with genuine kindness. "Sam, that's _so_ thoughtful. But I have a hotel room just a short distance along the seafront. It would be so easy to walk back. Don't put yourself to the trouble. You have important work to do."

Forlorn, Sam saw her last chance disappear. She heaved a sigh of resignation. "I should be off then, Sir."

Foyle tilted his head, and scrunched his eyes, feeling for the words through pangs of something that felt oddly akin to guilt. "_Thank you_ for your _tremendous_ help, Sam. Please tell Milner I'll telephone him later… this evening. I should be more comfortable by then. And, um, Sam?"

"Sir?" Sam's back was straight, and she was staring fiercely ahead in an effort to keep her eyes from filling.

"I apologise for snapping at you on the hill. It was thoroughly boorish of me."

Sam swallowed. Her boss was throwing her a bone. She hardly knew what made her more miserable: the fact that she was pitiably pleased to have it, or the fact that he regarded her as pitiable. Worse still, he was apologising in front of this woman.

"Think nothing of it, Sir," she countered coldly. "It was irresponsible of me to risk the car."

"That's not what I was concer…"

Before he could finish his sentence, Sam had turned on her heel, swept from the room and left the house.

Standing on the pavement outside, Samantha Stewart almost lost the battle with her tears. _Overdressed, overpaid... and over here_, fumed Sam miserably. Even in her grief, she stubbornly suppressed the epithet that would, in Jocelyn's case, have been the most apposite in this cynical assessment of Americans in Britain. _Mr Foyle would never lower himself._

Nevertheless, as she struggled to release the handbrake she'd applied with such unprecedented force when parking the car, tears of helpless anger began coursing down her cheeks unchecked, and soaked into the tunic of her uniform.

…

"Whoosh!" observed Jocelyn as the front door closed behind Samantha Stewart.

Perplexity was written on Foyle's face. "What did I say?"

Jocelyn shrugged. "You told her to go. Do I need to paint you a picture? _Told_ya she had it bad."

She rifled through the items she's retrieved from under the stairs and sighed in mild frustration. "No alcohol in this first aid kit, by the way. Got any spirits in the house?"

Foyle gestured perfunctorily to the remains of a bottle of Jack Daniel's on the bookshelf. "I can't believe it. Why would she…?"

Jocelyn stood before him and uncorked the whiskey. "Because she can smell it on us, Christopher. Sure as I can smell this"—she looked down at the bottle quizzically—"Tennessee hooch? The spirit's in the air."

"But I'm old enough to be…" Foyle's bluster was curtailed when Jocelyn bent and touched her lips to his.

"Mister," she breathed after a few seconds, "you're the hottest thing on two legs _I've_ seen in a while. Get used to the idea." She nipped his bottom lip. "Today, it just so happens you're on _one _leg, but as granny used to say, 'that makes no never mind'. Ya reckon we could leave your driver out of this, from here on in? Feels a liddle like she's watchin' us."

Foyle gazed up at her from under puckered eyebrows, but his eyes had darkened from the kiss. "Not a comforting image."

Jocelyn ran a hand under his chin. "_Somebody_ has a healthy beard. Do you shave twice a day?"

"What's that got to d…?"

"Nothing… everything…" her voice was singsong. "Got so little time to get to know ya. Want evurry teeny de_tail_. I'll be right back."

She hurried from the room, returning several minutes later with a bowl of warm soapy water that smelt of Dettol, and a selection of clean cloths and towels. "We're set," she sighed. "I'm gonna dress these wounds. Starting with the shoulder. Prepare to lose some layers." She leant and fed her arm around his left side to help him rise out of the chair.

"Jocelyn…" his left arm caught her round the waist and held her, so she had to rest her bottom on the armrest of the wing-easy. His eyes were pleading. "I should like to know you better, too. But look at me—I'm in an awful state."

"You leave the 'state' of you to me. I sorta like you in a state. If it weren't for the state of you," she winked, "I got an inkling you'd be harder to pin down."

Foyle smiled shyly. "You've got plans in that direction?"

"You betcha."

"In that case, you should know I'm somewhat… out of practice."

"That doesn't worry me. Pinning down is the fourth thing on my list. You get to warm up with the first three."

"A list-maker." Foyle raised an eyebrow. "Very organised."

"Not a fan of chaos," she purred softly, tracing a finger down his cheek. "But a _huge_ disciple of abandonment."

"Right." Foyle stretched his eyes. "So, Item One on this list would be…?"

"Dress your wounds, soldier." Jocelyn was back to businesslike. In a moment, she had eased him to his feet and was peeling off his coat and jacket with consummate care. Both, of course, were ruined, but as Foyle remarked, it hardly mattered, as the matching trousers were a write-off, too.

"Vest's salvageable, if a little bloody," Jocelyn observed, easing him out of his waistcoat. "And while you're standing up, we'll get you out of these, too." She started for his belt, but felt a light restraining grip on her wrist.

"I can do it."

"With your left hand?"

"Right one isn't entirely useless. I can grip a stick."

Jocelyn sighed contentedly. "Can't tell you how delighted I am to hear _that_. Might come in handy for Item Four."

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"_Au contraire_. I look at it as oiling wheels." She waited patiently while he fumbled with the belt and then the buttons of his flies. These proved awkward, requiring more dexterity with his right hand than he could muster. "Here, let me help you…" she urged, gently easing his fingers aside.

"Jocelyn…" his voice sounded a warning note.

"Doesn't matter," she breathed, trailing a finger down his cheek. "Nothing matters." She stooped, and in a moment had eased his trousers smoothly down and round his ankles.

"You've obviously done a lot of this in your line of work," he observed, faintly embarrassed. Seeing her respond with a wry look, he amended, "Um. That came out wrong."

Jocelyn took his left hand and placed it on her shoulder to aid his balance as she helped him step out of his trousers. The severed right trouser-leg had already been discarded in the back of the Wolseley, where, for all she knew, it still lay.

"That's it, Honey. Hey though, sorta had you figured for a suspenders guy."

Foyle thought she probably meant braces. "Um. Newish trousers. Thought I'd try a belt for a change."

She gave him a droll smile. "Shirt next; then you sit down, Son, before ya fall down."

Foyle obediently submitted to removal of his shirt. He watched in enforced idleness as she freed the cufflinks from the French cuffs. After she had done so, Jocelyn slid her fingers up his forearms beneath his shirtsleeves.

"Not going to get very far like that," he observed sardonically.

"Aw. Don't I get to have _some_ fun while I work?" she grinned up at him, enjoying the sensation of running her fingernails through the soft layer of hair along his arms. She squeezed lightly, testing the sinews between wrist and elbow, and felt them tense beneath her hand.

"Showin' me your muscles? Well, let's take a _goood_ look." She eased the shirt first from his injured shoulder, then from the other arm. Foyle stood, docile, letting her undress him like a child. The wadded handkerchief Jocelyn had used to cover his wound was still in place. Though blood had seeped through to the surface of the square of cloth, thankfully no more was running down his arm.

"I think we'll get ridda this now," Jocelyn observed, running a finger under the shoulder strap of his singlet. She helped him feed his left arm back through the arm-hole, then duck his head though the neck and shrug it off his right side.

Finally he stood there, bare-chested in his trunks. Jocelyn placed a forefinger over his sternum, noting his well-muscled chest and slight softness round the midriff. In all, he was a pleasing sight, and she would have loved to linger and appreciate the view and feel of him. But she could tell that he greatly needed to sit down.

"Okay, Honey," she said gently, pushing lightly on his chest with her finger. "You can take a seat."

Foyle sank gratefully back into the wing-easy, wondering where in blazes his modesty had disappeared to. Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation of being undressed by this stunning woman. And the pain from his wounds did little to diminish the pleasure and arousal he was feeling from her proximity. She had barely touched him, and already he was half-erect, his breathing growing shallow with anticipation of her hands on him once more. Everything about Jocelyn's behaviour and her body's language promised intimacy once his wounds were dressed. He only hoped the unaccustomed excitement wouldn't cause his body to disgrace him by reacting sooner than appropriate.

Jocelyn's eyes hadn't left his own as she had helped him back into the chair and removed his bloodied shoes and socks. But now that he was seated, they wandered unashamedly to his groin, noting the aroused state of him.

"I see ya. I'll be with ya. But I gotta fix these presents from _der Fűhrer _first."

Foyle smirked. She'd said _'durr Foorerr'_ with an obviously deliberate disrespect for German pronunciation. It put him in mind of Churchill's stubborn references to _'Nahzies'_, reputed to annoy Hitler something rotten. It amused him to imagine Jocelyn getting under Hitler's skin. She was certainly climbing under his, but not even remotely in the same way.

Jocelyn soaked cotton wadding with Jack Daniel's and bathed both wounds carefully, staunching any bleeding with light pressure from a folded cloth onto the injuries as she worked.

"So," she asked him casually, "whatcha doin' with a bottle of Jack?"

"Present from an invading army." Foyle grinned gamely through the sting of the alcohol on his wounds.

"Uh-huh."

When Jocelyn was satisfied both wounds were clean, she placed gauze on each, then prepared to apply proper bandages, starting with his shoulder.

"You were _vurry_ lucky, Christopher. The bullet gouged a pretty big piece of flesh offa the outside of your thigh, but no damage to the major blood vessels, or there'd be a lot more blood. Ploughed a furrow through the muscle, but the penetration's minimal."

She continued. "The arm's a similar situation. Took a nasty slice offa your deltoid. We know you can grip a walking stick. Can you grip my hand…?"

Foyle reached out to comply, and grasped her fingers. Jocelyn gave a satisfied nod. "Good thing you're so… well-developed, up there." She ran her fingers lightly up his arm. "You'll never miss just that liddle bit."

Foyle's lips quirked at the compliment. "I fish. This is my casting arm. I regularly land eleven-pounders, so…"

"Eleven-pounders?" Jocelyn rolled her eyes. Her father fished, so she was familiar with the licence taken by a fella in possession of a rod. "_Regularly? _Some real monsters in your Briddish rivers, huh?"

Foyle's lips twitched. "As it happens, I landed just such a monster last weekend. In the company of one of your countrymen. Point of fact, _he_ was the chap who brought that whiskey with him."

"Fish taste good? Musta fed ya aaall week…" Jocelyn's drawl was one of irony.

Foyle was suddenly subdued. "I, um... let her go."

"Come again?" Jocelyn was awed to think that a man in ration-blighted Britain could bear to pass up a fish of that size—well whatever size it _really_ was…

"She… It was too magnificent to eat."

"Man's gotta _eat_, Christopher. Nature's a beautiful thing, but a body needs fuel."

Foyle humphed. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Sam wasn't wrong, you know," Jocelyn offered conversationally as she bandaged his shoulder. "It wouldn't hurt to get you to a hospital."

"Nnno intention of going, though."

"Christopher…"

"Subject's closed. I go to hospital. They keep me in. You leave tomorrow. Not good. Treat me here."

"You're what we call a 'stubborn cuss', back home."

"Got something of a name for being 'bolshy' over here. Can't say it's ever influenced decisions that I make."

"Ballsy?"

"Bol-shy."

"I don't know what that means."

"Means… I won't be 'managed'."

"Uh-huh. I see. You may need sulfa powder in the wound…"

"Got any on you?"

"No I haven't."

"Then I'll do without."

"Yeah, you sure _are_ bol-shy."

Once Foyle's shoulder was finished, Jocelyn knelt in front of him in preparation to dress his thigh. She braced his calf on her knee and rolled the bandage expertly round the inside of his leg, passing gauze underneath and round the damaged muscle. From under hooded lids, he watched the concentration on her face.

The back of her right hand brushed nonchalantly against his arousal every time she fed the bandage round his thigh, and it grew increasingly difficult for him to keep his breathing even. If she sensed it, though, Jocelyn betrayed nothing, calmly finishing the arrangement with a safety pin, inverted underneath a layer of the bandage so it would not catch. She patted his right knee. "There you are, Honey," she said softly.

He caught her wrist, brought her hand up to his mouth, and kissed the palm.

Jocelyn smiled. "Aww. I don't really think you're _bolshy_. Seems to me, with the right treatment, you're pretty _easy_ to manage."

"Tend to agree. But some people just rub me up the wrong way."

"Gee, hope _I'm_ not one of those…"

"Categorically not."

Jocelyn was sitting on her haunches, gazing up at him, her huge irises already darkening as her interest in her companion mounted. Foyle's own eyes glittered down on her with penetrating blue intensity. Fingers still wrapped around her wrist, he bent and drew her towards him, wincing slightly as the movement caught his shoulder.

Jocelyn drew away.

"Codeine," she announced. "You got any, for the pain? Not aspirin. Not for this."

"Nnnot sure. Try the bathroom cabinet. Upstairs."

Jocelyn returned after a moment with a bottle and a teaspoon. "How old is this?" she wrinkled her nose.

Foyle shrugged. "'Bout two years. Andrew—my son's a fighter pilot—came down in the Channel. They dispensed it at the hospital for the pain."

"Oh, well. Beggars can't be choosers. Open up."

Foyle was duly dosed with painkiller, and sank back into his chair, more than a little weary from the whole ordeal. Jocelyn settled back onto her bent legs in front of him, holding his hand. "Give it fifteen minutes. Close your eyes a little while."

Foyle's eyes shot open, seeking hers. "No desire to sleep. The day is going to waste."

"Honey, if your body's tired…" This, she decided, was the bolshy Foyle who wouldn't be 'managed'. _Ooo-kayyy. _She thought. _I remember how to manage this._

Jocelyn moved forwards onto her knees, and eased his legs apart. Running a hand over the coarse hair on top of his left thigh, she stroked the softer growth on the pale flesh of his inside leg. Foyle's breath caught in his throat. She could see him twitch beneath his trunks, and slid a hand up under the material to cup him. Foyle arched his groin reflexively, pushing his warm flesh into her ready hand.

Jocelyn squeezed lightly. "Mmm, Honey, is that gooood?" She pecked small kisses up his inner thigh, reaching up her right hand to pinch his left nipple. A sharp hiss escaped him. From the corner of her eye she watched him grow. And grow. And grow. The growth rate grabbed her full attention, and she raised her head to focus fully on his breathtaking erection. Now it was straining hard against his underpants, as her left hand still grasped the weight of him.

Not wishing to withdraw her hand, nicely filled as it was, she reached across with her right, and ran it up his length. She estimated seven—eight inches? And seriously imposing girth into the bargain. Jocelyn was in a quandary. She had intended first to pleasure him with her lips and mouth, but viewing the equipment now on offer, her core was twitching with temptation and her hips were of a mind to squirm.

Christopher's groans began the moment that she touched him. "Oh, God. Jocelyn. I'm. Sorry. _Please._ Oh, Christ!"

The plea was what decided her. She'd damp herself right down and give him this. The memory flew back to her, of how he'd thrown himself protectively across her, up there on the hill. That was an act of gallantry the like of which she'd never known, and gallant knights deserved their just reward.

"Shhh, Hon," she purred. "I'm gonna get you shed of these."

Calmly she reached behind her for the scissors in the first aid kit, and, pressing carefully down on his belly just above the tip of his erection, she cut the waistband of his trunks in two places, feeding her hand under the scissors as she sheared on downwards to the hem end of each leg.

Casting the scissors aside, she watched the now-detached front panel of his underpants shoot forwards with the pressure of his member from beneath. And what a prize! The sight of him fair took her breath. Eight proud inches jutting from his lower belly. Christopher was now breathing short and fast, gripping his armchair on both sides, his head thrown back against the backrest of the chair… but he surveyed her evenly from under hooded lids. She felt his ache, his struggle to contain the rampant urge that fuelled his arousal, and did the only thing that mercy would allow.

Jocelyn cupped his now-exposed anatomy and, positioning her face directly over him, dragged her lips slowly over the extreme tip, lapping away the glistening bead that nestled there with a joyful, hungry tongue.

"_Jossss_—lyn!" The powerful upward jolt of his hips would have threatened injury to them both, had she not had the presence of mind to place a restraining hand flat on the salt-and-pepper curls at the base of his arousal. Jocelyn clenched her stomach muscles, consciously relaxed her throat—her mouth alone would have been insufficient to accommodate his length—and carefully drew him inside, taking in as much as she could accept. She felt him contract in her left hand, and pressed up against him gently, fondling the warmth of him within her palm.

His masculine aroma, and the gentle undulation of his body as she caressed his flesh, made her abdominals scrunch with the effort of containing her own arousal. But this she gladly did, because this man was all the world to her in this reality, and she was completely, utterly invested in the goal of making him whimper, buck and, _God! Yes! _even scream with ecstasy.

Christopher's hand alighted on her hair, first resting tentatively on her crown and ghosting down until it reached her shoulders. But as she plunged her mouth upon him yet again, seeking and then finding an angle that allowed the fully engorged length into her open throat, his fingers dug into her locks and gathered in a generous hank of dark waves, crumpling them hard into his palm. "Almighty God!" he moaned. "I couldn't stop you now to save my life."

Jocelyn found a perfect rhythm, still controlling his upward thrusts with the palm of her right hand. Because she couldn't speak to him, communication was entirely in her lips around him, and her stroking fingers. She found that by tightening her lips between thrusts, and trailing her fingernails lightly along his tender flesh, she could elicit sharp, staccato little panting cries from Christopher, and they were music to her ears.

When she felt him growing frantic under her ministrations, she slowly withdrew her mouth from around his length, and went to work instead with just her lips and tongue.

This change of focus drove Christopher into a different state entirely. She felt a new tightness in his lower abdomen, beneath the softness of his belly, and she could now see the definition of the muscles in his upper abdomen and chest. His right hand took a grip upon her shoulder, and just below the bandage, she observed his biceps bulge. Jocelyn raised an eyebrow to herself. _Surely that must be painful, with his injury. _Nevertheless, his grip on her tightened, and she put it down to a combination of the codeine kicking in, alongside the endorphins from the exercise.

Jocelyn returned her full attention to her pleasurable task. Her right hand closed around the base of his shaft, anchoring him in place with pressure from her thumb. Her left hand kneaded rhythmically, then slid back along him stroking with a fingernail. She felt Christopher twitch, and sensed an escalation of his arousal.

His gasp converted to a whimper, as she probed and stroked.

"Oh, no! Oh, Jocelyn! Dear God! For pity's sake, I'm going to… Ahh!"

Jocelyn smiled inwardly and again took him deep into her mouth, her right thumb angling him where she wanted him to be. All the time massaging the sensitive silkiness between his legs, she pressed gently upwards, then began a steady rhythm with her lips, up and down the length of him. The thrusts from Christopher were growing frenzied, and the vocal evidence of his enjoyment louder.

He wouldn't last much longer, she could tell. And so she pressed into him with the heel of her hand, feeling him contract once more, then disappear inside himself completely. She continued with her lips and tongue, massaging and stroking his arousal, and after just a few more thrusts, she felt her lover tense and tighten. His hand gripped her hair with such a force, she feared she might lose some of it at the roots. Then, with a bellow, he emptied himself into her mouth, thrusting deep into her throat where she felt his contractions pulsing deep.

The howl subsided into whimpers. Christopher was spent.

Jocelyn withdrew her hand from inside him and rolled her head against his left leg. She felt his fingers loosen and shift to cradle the nape of her neck. "Jocelyn," he panted. "I do... I do apologise. I hope... I didn't hurt you in any way. The sensation... was so powerful, I couldn't control…"

"Shhh!" she admonished, reaching for him as he ebbed into a flaccid state. "I know you've got good manners, but you can put 'em away for right now. This is sex, Sweetie! You can relax the upper lip, and save the stiffness for the rest of ya."

A deep rumble started underneath her right ear. Christopher was laughing. Christopher Foyle was laughing. She had made him come, and made him laugh. Well, hey, perhaps she'd make him say he loved her. Maybe.

Christopher's right hand strayed down to her breast. "You feel like heaven. Hope this hasn't ruined me for later…" he murmured.

Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

******** TBC ********

*sigh* (*gulp*)

**GiuC**


End file.
